Run
by Boston Manor
Summary: Holmes and Watson are in a race against time across the streets of London - but Holmes is struggling. One shot, please R&R.


**Disclaimer: characters belong to ACD.**

**RUN**

"Run, Holmes, run!" I shouted, but much to my amazement he was falling behind.

"Out … of … breath," I heard him panting behind me.

We rounded the corner from into Grosvenor Square. My lungs felt fit to burst. I stumbled, but did not fall, as I launched myself around the corner. Passers-by leaped out of our way as we ran, full speed, across the tidy gardens, out of the south gate and started down South Audley Street. To this day I do not know how I managed to race down the crowded pavements of the busy thoroughfare.

"Watson!" I heard Holmes call faintly from behind me. I slowed and turned, to see him slowing to a stop. I cursed under my breath, turned and ran back to him. He was standing, leaning with one hand against the door of one of the shops – a rather fashionable boutique as it so happened – with sweat running down his face. As I reached him his legs seemed to buckle, and he sat on the ground, head between his knees.

"I ... don't ... know ... how you do it, Watson." He attempted a wan smile, failed miserably, and closed his eyes as if concentrating on his breathing.

In truth I was glad of the break from exertion. "All will be lost, Holmes!" I tried to encourage him, but he seemed to be in some difficulty. I cast my mind back to the previous evening and – well, the answer was obvious.

"When you were with Mycroft, you didn't just discuss the case, did you?"

Holmes opened his eyes, and met mine steadily. He was starting to catch his breath again; he was not as laboured as a few moments earlier. "It was getting late … it was raining … and Mycroft – well, he was on unusually good form."

"I know. When I left you it was nine in the evening and he was still holding forth about the latest moves in the Admiralty. It did sound quite exciting." It had come as a revelation to me that Holmes' brother was not the Whitehall auditor I had assumed, but rather the possessor of a singular brain which made him a man unique amongst the other civil servants – departmental heads, Secretaries of State, Ministers even, all sought and valued his advice.

"He held forth quite late into the evening, Watson." Holmes was nearly recovered. "But the cellar of the Diogenes Club is even more renowned across the machinery of Government than my brother's talents."

I proffered my best doctor's tone of voice. "So you had a bit too much, then?"

Holmes smiled sheepishly, and then stood up. "A new country wine. Brewed near Portsmouth – Horndean – by Gales. It rather took me by surprise. I only had one glass. Very impressive. I must remember to keep some to hand – it may come in useful if I need to drug someone into oblivion. As it was, I managed to remove one bottle for further … examination. Come, on with the chase," and with that, as one renewed of vigour and life, he sped off down Audley Street, and I followed in his wake. I blessed my good fortune that my health was, these days, quite robust. However I was now troubled. The great Sherlock Holmes – still drunk at gone nine in the morning after one glass of wine?

We crossed Curzon Street, right into Piccadilly, left into Gosvenor Place, passing the high wall of the royal residence. Fewer people were about in this more scenic part of London, fewer people to have to shout at to "get out of the way!"

And all the time the awful thought was dawning on me. The mistake I had made.

Finally, there it was before us – Victoria Station. We ran, panting, across Buckingham Place and through the welcoming arch of the magnificent building. And there she was.

Holmes slowed to a brisk walk and greeted her. "Mrs Hudson, as promised, we are here to welcome you home."

"Thank goodness we made it," I thought, but actually said, "Welcome back, Mrs Hudson. It doesn't seem two moments since you left us for your holiday. Have you had a wonderful time?"

"Yes, thank you," she replied. "But I was worried. You are late."

Holmes was indignant. "Really, I don't think …."

"Nine forty-two, Mr Holmes," she smiled. "It is now nine forty-seven. In my book that makes you five minutes late."

Holmes squirmed like a small child being chided by a loving parent. He muttered something under his breath about being very sorry, and that it wouldn't happen again, and that it was Watson's fault.

She turned to me and saw the package I had been carrying. "For me? How kind."

"We thought we could stroll in Hyde Park on the way back to Baker Street. Have a morning picnic. It's such a beautiful day." I couldn't stop myself, gushing forth. How to get out of this awful situation? I realised I couldn't; so I handed the package to her.

Holmes took Mrs Hudson's single travelling bag, and the three of us walked slowly back up Grosvenor Place towards Hyde Park. What on earth would happen when we got there? When Mrs Hudson opened the package? When she found, amongst other savoury delights, that it contained a bottle of wine that I had found on the kitchen table this morning? The wine that I now knew could well deliver the three of us into drunken delirium after a single glass?


End file.
